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What We Leave Behind
'' "To know the road ahead, ask those coming back." '' Lightholder Tavern ---- :It is said - primarily by the proprietor, a jovial merchant-classer named Solas Creek - that all roads in Fastheld lead to the Lightholder Tavern. On any given night, it's not hard to see why he might justify such a claim. :''The pub, which started centuries ago as a small refreshment wagon for laborers building Fastheld Keep atop Caryas Hill, sees boisterous crowds filling its rafters with laughter and pipe smoke at all hours of the day and night as travelers make their way through the realm. :''About three dozen tables are arranged among the polished wooden columns on which hang the wrought-iron lanterns that help give the tavern its name. Solas or one of his assistants can usually be found working behind a wide C-shaped counter, serving mugs of keg-tapped ale to thirsty patrons who stand at the bar. :''The floor is strewn with amber rushes, except in a circle of about twenty feet in diameter, where the stone fireplace and chimney rise toward the ceiling. ---- The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain... On the Fifth hour by the Shadow on Riverstretch, the 22nd day of Bleakdreary in the year 627 ATA, business is not flowing so well for one Solas Creek. This might be because the rain outside the Lightholder Tavern *is*, in fact, flowing quite well. Flowing in rivulets between the cobbles of the crossroads beyond as the ground is pelted with torrents of rain to such an extent that the door to the establishment has been firmly shut to prevent any of that rain getting in. Of course, the rain has also had the side effect of keeping customers out as well, leaving the Tavern in an unusually peaceful state of affair at this time of night. Evidently, going home was a better idea than getting wet on the way to the tavern, and then remaining damp once inside, for most people. Still, within the dimly lit depths of the Lightholder a few patrons remain: The regular drunks who most likely keep Solas in business with their payments alone. The two officers of the Imperial Watch who are on a break. The pair of merchants who are staying the night. The smith with his hand down the bodice of one of the serving girls. The ranger clad in black leather in the corner, hood over his head, brooding over one mug of ale that doesn't seem to have been touched... A ranger clad in dull-black leather and steel ringmail. Armor a shade darker and flatter than obsidian ringmail, watching over a very unusual seven-foot-tall staff of polished white river oak, with flame-shaped gilding embossed along the top. Interesting. A blacked haired woman makes her way down the steps that lead up into the inn, her booted feet tread lightly on the steps. She slows her descent as she reaches the bottom to cast a cautious gaze around the tavern. Her eyes narrowing slightly on each of the patrons. Her survey is interrupted by the melodic voice of one of the tavern maids who chirps when spying her, "G'day Mistress Clearwater. I hopes that the leak in the roof didn't cause yah too much strife last night. We's be fixin' it right up proper." The black-clad Ranger in the corner of the tavern grants the black-haired woman a cursory glance in return to her offering a similar look, but offers little in the way of greeting or identification. He seems content to wait and watch for now, looking back upon the mug of forsaken ale that rests upon the table in front of him. The hood, of course, is one of those that manages to shroud his features when angled in a certain way, permitting he who is hidden within that faux veil of anonymity to look on from within the shadows of his own making. Maya casts the tavern maid a distracted look, her attention now drawn to the hooded man in the corner. "I uh...yes it was fine," she answers her with an offhand gesture with her hand, "It's not a worry." The young girl nods and opens her mouth to continue the chatter, but is cut off as Ester gruffs a quick, "Excuse me," and starts walking towards the man. She eyes him with caution, her manner somewhat tense. The tavern maid shrugs and wanders off towards the bar counter. "Shadowdancer?" The Ranger offers by way of greeting; a somewhat cryptic title that should allow for names to be unspoken, and strangers to be forsaken in the wake of their confusion and a shrug of dismissal from the enigmatic figure himself. The very phrase itself is one that might attract suspicion, were the Tavern not so dead. Then again, Rangers are known to be a brooding lot. Regardless, this Ranger gestures to the free space upon the "L" shaped corner booth that he sits within, glancing back upon the tense woman with but the slightest glimpse of ice-blue eyes and auricomous hair the shade of ash. The reference causes the small ghost of smile to flicker over her features. Ester nods once and answers with a brief, "Aye." A quick breath in an attempt to relieve some of her tension and she slides onto the seat. She nods her head in gesture of greeting, her gaze searching within the ranger's hood. She forces a small smile and comments, "Quiet in here tonight." "Rain has that effect, it seems." the Ranger offers in a silenced purr of regal tone and casual voice, nodding within the hood of that dark cloak to the greater tavern around them. "Any proverbs about weather are doubly true during a storm, it's said. Personally, I've never understood what the fuss is about. You can hide from the rain and get wet, or you can walk through it and get wet. You can imagine what I usually opt for." With that said, and a light smile hidden from the world, the Ranger places two gloved hands upon the edges of the hood and flicks it back with a quick motion, revealing himself to all the world as one Prince Serath Kahar. ''As expected, absolutely no one reacts. "I'm not fond of all these 'cloak and dagger ' gestures, truth be told. The irony is that I seem to be very good at them." Maya nods with understanding, her voice quiet as she speaks, "I have become quite proficient with them over the past while as well. More then I ever expected I would have to be." She forces an amiable smile, trying to appear more relaxed then she is. She pauses as she searches for what to say next and finally decides upon a simple, "Thank you...for all of this." An incline of his head to the left, just a little, demonstrates Serath's mild confusion with that statement. He smiles all the same, regarding the Shadowdancer with a somewhat sympathetic expression. "You shouldn’t be thanking me, really." the Ranger-Prince finally offers, "One way you could look at it is that I have an agenda of my own; one that you're unknowingly helping me with. Another is that you may very well have prevented a revolution of the worse possible kind, one that sought to exploit those who have come forward in the hope that the Imperial Law will give them some degree of freedom and civility again. " A pause, a glance towards the entrance as a young skin-soaked noble girl wearing less than she should be for this weather staggers in, and a look back upon 'Maya' all follow in the wake of his statement. "As I understand it, you're trying to make as much a difference as I am." Ester casts a brief glance at the woman, eyeing her briefly before looking back to the Prince. She clears her throat, "Trying would be the proper word. Whether I've been successful or not is a matter of opinion. As you most likely well know, things from my perspective have been...well...difficult over the past year." Her voice lowers, "And I would be lying if I proclaimed that my reasons for coming forth with this information as I have are entirely altruistic in nature. I speak truthfully of course, but did so because my hand was forced to use whatever information I had that could protect me and my bretheren." She pauses, "I don't take any of this lightly." "The fact that we're sat here speaks that you're in like minded company." Serath offers, pausing to take note of the long scar that taints the woman's cheek, before catching her gaze once more. A mirthless smile falls upon his features, "The very act is unthinkable, or would have been before this point." he states, voice purposefully low, "To use the amnesty as an excuse to recruit those who are under it with the intent of undoing everything the amnesty sought to bring to the Empire, all for a personal vendetta, is not something I'd expected from the Nillu." One might note that the Prince doesn't actually name the Nillu in question, just to retain some degree of secrecy. "He'd sooner see the Empire in the midst of civil war than swallow his pride. And use those under the amnesty to destroy themselves in the process. It's madness." Ester's expression darkens as the Prince speaks. She makes no attempt to hide how she is feeling. Her tone however is more forlorn and sad then bitter and angry. She seems resigned, "It is not something I expected from him either. I did not realize the extent to which he would take things. I question where his mind even is." She pauses to choose her words, "I believe he underestimated me and what I could do with all I know." She ends with a small sigh and shake of her head. "Thank the Light that he *did* deprecate the extent of your knowledge." the Prince notes in a slightly warmer tone, glancing back to the ivory staff that remains propped up against the wall just to the side of the booth to make sure it's still standing (which it is) before placing his gaze upon that forsaken mug. "The extent of your knowledge - and just how vehement Sahna Nillu's desire to get out of House Nillu - was. The ones closest to you are often the ones in the best position to stab you in the back when you've scorned them, after all." Maya looks down at the table and nods, "Aye that is very true." She looks up again and straightens, "Well the beds have been made and now we must lie in them. To be truthful M'lord I just wish to say my piece and allow those who will to deal out the consequences. And if I can garner some bit of freedom out of the mess that surrounds me then I will be satisfied. I wish to mend what I can and move on to other things that need to be done." She shakes her head, "I have been embroiled in the politics of the noble set for some time now. Sometimes of my own making and sometimes not and I can't say that it is a lot that I enjoy with any great vigor." Taran arrives from Lightholder Crossroads - Interdistrict Carriage Hub "They're best avoided, all told." the Ranger-Prince affirms, a mirthless smile again caressing his features. He sighs, tapping the thick table with the fingers of his right hand. "I try my best to. In all truth, they're somewhat beneath me now. Trivial, really. I won't elaborate but... it's one of the reasons I finally abdicated without regret. It just didn't seem as important anymore." A pause, "Speaking of freedoms, the pardon is as sincere as I can make it sound without you actually getting it for yourself. You'll have to take the mark, though, and I imagine that some degree of service to our 'mutual friend' is going to be required. However, I have a suspicion that whatever he throws at you, you'll make the best of in your own way, and-" At that the Ranger pauses, casting a glance to the door. "We're being watched." Taran steps into the tavern, absently shaking wet from a drenched dark green cloak as he looks around. Apparently satisfied as to there being an audience of some sort, he tugs his hood back with a sigh and then removes his cloak - letting the light of his lute-strings catch such attention as the tavern's patrons might offer. Walking over to the fire, he takes a seat on a stool and composes himself - settling his pack at his feet, his cloak over it so that it will be dried by the fire. Maya doesn't follow Serath's look. She simply nods in affirmation, "Aye. I know. I have developed quite the sense for such things over these past months." The comment is accompanied by a flicker of a wry grin. "I will have no trouble taking the Mark; in fact I look forward to not having to hide in the shadows." She pauses to look over at the bard commenting out of the side of her mouth, "And yes your assessment about what I will do with our 'friend's' desires for me is correct." Tamae walks into the tavern several moments behind Taran, heading towards a table near the fire. Wet hair has been blown across her face and clings as she reaches a hand up to push it away; the movement reveals, on her right cheek, a tattoo that looks fairly recent; it's simple enough, merely a circle that's black on one side and yellow on the other. "He's not a bad person," the Ranger offers in those same hushed tones to his female Rogue companion, "He's just not a *nice* person. I don't think he's beyond redemption. In fact, part of what he's currently doing could be considered atonement for all of his previous misdeeds. That seat comes with power, true, but it's power with a price. It's something my brother often spoke of, and something I've always been afraid of." He pauses, and for moment seems only to stare into the lone candle that does little to stave off the shadows that linger in that corner of the tavern. "Of all things in my life, bar one, nothing scares me as much as that damn chair." Taran, for his part, begins to play rather quietly. Nothing that would drown out conversations, he draws a gentle, lilting melody from the seraphic strings. As minutes pass he will let the music get stronger and clearer, but for now it's best heard from near the fire. As he plays, he watches - looking for reactions. Serath's comment appears to catch Ester off guard and she gives the man an odd look before responding. "Your brother was a good man," she offers in a quiet voice, tainted with a wistful air. "I wish I could have..." she starts and then stops, shaking what appears to be a pained thought from her mind. "I understand as best that I am able. I was involved...at the end and saw first hand all that was expected." She glances away briefly as the melody starts to search out his owner. "I hope that what you say about our friend is correct, but please understand that it causes me some fear. The last time we had words...well...it wasn't 'good'. And what I did after that..." She interjects with a nervous chuckle. "Well that wasn't 'good' either. For him at least. For me of course it was. Not many people manage to escape those dungeons and live to tell about it." Tamae looks over towards Taran, tilting her head to one side. Droplets of water drip down her back and off her hair, the Zahiress almost absently raising a hand to signal one of the servers. "I wouldn't worry about it," the enigmatic Ranger-Prince in (relative) disguise assures his female friend (though one might consider that to be a catch-all reply!); "You won't be going there alone. I'll be coming with you, through curiosity if not out of a sense of duty that seems to have survived even through death." He smiles at that - a knowing smile - as ice-blue falls back upon Maya's scar. "Am I to assume that your scar is part of the outfit? Or did someone pay for that?" Taran continues to play, to all intents focused upon the melody drawn from the shining strings. He hums a quiet harmonic line for a while, warming his vocal cords; when he sings, it is in a clear and somewhat haunting tenor, as the lute's music shifts to a supportive melody. :"Far from the worn path of reason :Further away from the sane :He battles his shadows and demons :Fighting to light the way. :And the dust and the dirt cloud his vision :Onward he rides, unafraid, :He fights the good fight for good reason, :A star that refuses to fade. :Still he braves his path, while windmills only laugh." Maya runs her fingers over the scar and grins. "I did it myself," she states with a small shrug. She goes on to explain, "Through the force of having to conceal myself all of these months I have developed an interesting technique to create such things. Painful though and messy at times." She wiggles her fingers, "Though with a wave of my hand it can easily be removed." She smiles a little, her manner easing to jest, "So if you ever need such a service..." Tamae leans back, the server bringing her a glass of red wine, a loaf of bred, and a bowl of venison stew. She looks at Taran, but doesn't say anything for now as he sings. The door is pushed open to the surprisingly quiet tavern, a brief blast of cold air preceding the two figures, one large and one not so large, that enter. Duhnen's attention it split between where he's going and the little girl walking next to him whose hand he holds, an amused smile on his face as he listens to her happy chattering; the talk of one who's just learning how to say all that they can think to say. Katya is bundled up quite thoroughly against the cold, a small thick cloak wrapped about her and a shawl drawn over her head, tiny curls escaping and matting against her forehead, her cheeks rosy red. "I have a handle on it." Serath offers by way of reply; another ambiguous comment from the somewhat equivocal Ranger-Prince spoken upon that distinctive purr, his words positioned to interject between the harmonious tones of the songbird by the fire so that an air of subdued silence can be maintained in that shadowed corner of the Lightholder. After all, it wouldn't do to shout when you're attempting subterfuge. "Or will do, in due time. Speaking of time..." he gestures towards a rain-stained window with one gloved hand. "Leave together, or staggered?" Taran is playing on a stool near the fire, his cloak over his pack at his feet. As Duhnen enters he gets a nod of greeting, but the bard's music and song do not pause. He smiles a little through the words; it's fairly clear the bard has someone specific in mind as he sings. :"She was wounded and wild when he found her; :He saw her through childs eyes :She fell for the spell he was under :Each day a brand new surprise :And she watches with strange curiosity :She wants so much to believe :Hoping to break the chains of reality :Dying to set herself free :Still he braves his path, while windmills only laugh." The girl next to Duhnen pauses mid-step as the tune rolls over her, her mouth forming a surprised little 'o'. "Dudya!" she squeals in delight as she thinks to react, glancing up to him wide eyed, before abruptly beginning to rush forward, attempting to tug along the man behind her. Duhnen laughs in amusement, thinking enough to close the door behind him before allowing himself to be led, father and daughter moving towards where Taran performs. Ester's attention is held by Serath, so she doesn't appear to notice Duhnen and Katya's arrival. She ponders the question for moment. "Whatever you think best," is her answer. "I have little to lose being seen with you, you on the other hand may." She smiles a little, "Though I can't say I am looking forward to braving that rain. Usually I pay no mind, but somehow right now I'd rather just curl up by a warm fire and pretend that none of this is happening." Tamae sips at her wine quietly, attention flicking to the girl as she calls out and rushes towards Taran. The Zahir woman says nothing, just watching for now, although there's a slight smile at the sight of the girl. "Some people walk in the rain," the Sovereign Prince of the Blood remarks with a smile, placing two gloved hands behind his head to pull the hood of the black leather cloak he wears over his head, shrouding his features in subdued lighting and shadows cast by leather and ambiance. "Others just get wet." To those who know him only by name, he could be just any Noble. Without hearing a voice or viewing a face to put the name to, he could be anyone. Hidden under a shroud of black anonymity, he's just another ranger waiting out the day to stalk the shadows at night. Thus does that ranger stand, evening out the cloak that covers the pathfinder ringmail he wears, before turning to collect the seven-foot long ivory staff that rests against the wall, tapping the butt against the floor once or twice light, and then turning back to his companion. "The Light dictates my path now, Shadowdancer. I have nothing to lose by being see with those whom I have helped to create, and the Light demands I see this through just as much as you wish to. Regardless, take some time to gather your thoughts, and I'll meet you at our intended destination." Taran smiles in a distracted way as he plays, his fingers nimbly working through the closing chords of his song. Pale blue-gray eyes note not the Ranger, but his staff, before shifting attention to focus on the little child apparently intent on charging his knees. :"Though he may appear tattered and broken :His clothes are shabby and bare :Still he glows like the flame of a candle :With passion of one who still cares :There was always a rhyme to the reason :Peering out from tired eyes :The truth finally came in treason :So wrong, but so justified. :So wrong but so justified... Windmills close their eyes..." As he lets the final note fade from lute and voice, he bows over his oversized lute. ---- Return to Season 5 (2007) Category:Logs